


not a piece of art

by smithens



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Sex, Class Differences, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Homophobia, M/M, Military Ranks, Power Imbalance, Slow To Update, Threats & Blackmail, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Five times Thomas Barrow was made to feel inferior.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 82





	1. 1910

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings in the **Archive Warnings** field, the **Additional Tags** field, and the **Beginning Chapter Notes** for individual chapters.
> 
> Do let me know (courteously, please) if you read the fic and feel that something should be warned for and isn't, but keep in mind the rating of the work and the already-attached archive warning. If you clicked on this and you know that this content upsets you, please close the tab and go do something else, like read a fluffier fic or watch GIFs of the Turton's scene in the film on loop or smell a nice candle or whatever.
> 
> There will be an "and one" sequel to this as the end of the series, which serves as whump resolution. Do not expect whump resolution until that's up, which will be after all five times are published.
> 
> All sexual content shown and implied/referenced in this work occurs between two adults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional content warnings/notes for this chapter include:** pederasty fantasy, unspecified age gap, humiliation, references to prosititution and transactional sex, sexual overstimulation.

**FOX HUNT, DOWNTON, 1910**

* * *

He feels a brush of fingertips upon the outside of his thigh, and accidental though it may be, it makes him shiver.

Because he's daft, he lets it get to him and fumbles with a button on the shirt.

"Is this your first time, Thomas?" asks Lord Carrington, _of course he bloody noticed,_ with a cloyingly sweet smile. "You seem quite young for a valet."

"I'm very practised, my Lord."

It's not a lie. He's spent the last month and a half learning under Mr. Watson with Arthur and Gabriel, who also gave him plenty of advice — although he's not sure how much of that is to be trusted, really.

"And practise amounts to experience, does it?"

Well, that's not a question with an easy answer.

So he doesn't give one, at first, and he does his best to maintain a neutrally servile expression, but he can't not speak when spoken to, either, so he has to come up with something —

Lord Carrington hums.

"I hope not to disappoint your Lordship," says Thomas at last, and though he keeps his eyes fixed on His Lordship's stock collar, he can feel the smirk he's receiving.

He wishes he could smack it off of him.

"I should think."

Retrieving the waistcoat at least allows him to turn around and huff; once he has it, he holds it for him to put his arms through and then sets about fastening it as quickly as he can.

"Ought I feel slighted that my valet is still wet behind the ears?"

 _They gave me to you because you're only a bloody viscount, yeah,_ he'd say if he could, but he's only a bloody servant, himself, so what he actually says, through teeth he is trying _so hard_ not to grit, is, "no, my Lord, it's a very large party. There are only four men to valet those who came without."

Which would be more than enough, if the whole peerage of England hadn't decided to accept the invitation to hunt and then let their help fall ill — Gabriel has Mr. Patrick, which he would have done anyway, so that's nothing much to do with it, but even Mr. Carson's valeting temporarily. And for a Marquess, at that.

That'll be him one day _permanently,_ if he decides to stick around in service. Just has to keep his cards close to his chest and play them right whenever his turn comes around.

"Four _men,_ you say? Do you include yourself among them?"

Yes, because he's turning nineteen, not bloody twelve.

Thomas resists the urge to glower at him and instead reaches for his tie. When he goes to hand it over, however, Lord Carrington gently takes him by the wrist. "Show me that you know how, Thomas, I'm rather curious."

He hates the tone he takes on whenever he says his name — it's like how Lord Grantham says _good dog_ to Pharaoh.

And he knows how to do a damn bowtie. He's done it what must be hundreds of times in the last week alone, on the senior footmen, no less, and it'll be a contest who's the most smug of them all when he does it, Lord Carrington or them. Probably the former, because he's still smirking as Thomas loops it around his neck. When his knuckles accidentally touch below his chin — why he's looking down while having his tie done up, Thomas will never know — he chuckles, like it's a clumsy mistake and not his own fault.

It looks excellent once he's finished, though, perfectly symmetrical, and he does feel pride when he steps back.

If nothing else, he's quick on the uptake, good at his job.

"Oh, you are very good, aren't you."

His voice sends a shiver down his spine.

And not the good kind.

"Thank you, your Lordship."

Thomas lowers his eyes, obsequious. He's anxious to get out of this room and back downstairs, just so he can have ten seconds of peace to himself before he has to get on with dinner and the rest of the night. With his luck, he won't sleep until one in the morning at the earliest, now that he's got a Lord to look after.

That was all Gabriel and Arthur had done at the breakfast table for the past three days, whinge about not getting enough sleep.

And then Mr. Carson had come in and said that _Mr. Carrington is in hospital_ , and _you'll see to his Lordship, Thomas, don't make me regret it,_ and he'd been smug about the job, but now…. 

Lord Carrington presses two fingers below Thomas's chin and lifts.

" — but let's not dawdle, I should hate to be tardy. That _would_ reflect poorly upon you, wouldn't it? Everyone might think you slow at the task."

This… can't be normal.

"Yes, your Lordship."

He draws his thumb along Thomas's jaw.

"And of course you won't wish to give me cause to complain of my treatment to the Earl."

And then over his lips.

_How does he know, does he know, if he does, how —_

— because Mr. Carrington hadn't been around long enough to find out unless someone told him, and Arthur's not stupid enough to tell another house's staff what he gets up to with the junior footman when the first one isn't around, so it can't be that, and sure the Viscount is gorgeous and all, but he wasn't really looking, and even if he was, there are plenty of reasons a footman should be looking at someone in the dining room while he's serving him —

"Please speak when spoken to, Thomas," Lord Carrington trills. He leaves his thumb on the corner of his mouth until he finds his words.

"No, your Lordship."

Wherever this is going, he's not sure he likes it.

"I'm so pleased we agree."

On the bright side, the rest of it goes quickly, and then he darts downstairs to get what now has to be five seconds of peace and then wait at table — which goes well enough. He stays entirely unacknowledged, blends right into the wallpaper, as he should.

Unfortunately, this isn't the case in the smoking room. 

Knowing he's being watched makes Thomas so uncomfortable that even once he's been excused and he's downstairs again, the hair on the back of his neck is still standing up.

Arthur grabs him on his way to the servants' hall and pulls him into the nook under the stairs; before he can think, they're kissing.

He's the one who pushes him off, which is not how things normally go between them. "What the hell are you – "

"Got bored. Any of 'em go up yet?"

Thomas stares at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised.

"Mine hasn't."

"Bet mine will, soon, he's so old. Wish I had yours, he's nicer to look at."

"Take him," Thomas mutters, "see if I care."

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

...he shouldn't have said it; it was much too honest.

"Don't think I believe you mean that, when you was champin' at the bit to valet yesterday, like – "

He's had a pit in his stomach since doing up Lord Carrington's tie.

"Maybe I got spooked," Thomas says, and he skulks off before Arthur can follow him.

About an hour later, after Mr. Carson and Gabriel have come down to send him up, he runs into O'Brien on the stairs.

She takes one look at him, says something that isn't funny about him and Arthur, and then pats him on the shoulder as she passes.

"You're not my mother," he calls down; she drawls up, "and I'm ever so grateful for it."

Thomas isn't stupid enough to let the door slam, baize probably doesn't take care of that, but God, does he want to.

He _is_ stupid enough to start to think he might have been imagining everything that went on before dinner.

Lord Carrington says nothing at all while he undoes his cufflinks and gets him out of his tails, doesn't make a sound while he hangs some of the garments in the wardrobe and bundles up the others for laundering. Not one word, until, "thank you, Thomas."

So he starts for the door, because that's his cue to leave, but just before he's touched the knob — 

"I'll be expecting you in… an hour, let's say?"

He almost says, _what._

He actually says, "my Lord," in a tone that just crosses the line from flat to impertinent.

"You needn't be coy."

This is definitely, definitely, definitely not normal.

Thomas turns around, helpless.

"An hour," he repeats. "Your Lordship."

"One hour, yes."

He steps nearer.

"Will it be your first time, Thomas?"

Just like earlier, isn't it — his gut was right, not that he could do anything about it.

He knows what he's asking, and there's no way he'll get away with acting like he doesn't. Not now.

A normal footman wouldn't have just stood there letting a lord stroke his lips.

Thomas shakes his head, mouth dry; when Lord Carrington raises his eyebrows and lifts his chin, it's only his sense of self-preservation that allows him to say, "no, my Lord."

"Ah," he replies. "You've legitimate experience, then."

"Yes, my Lord."

He's glad he's had this job long enough now that the words come easy. If this had happened a year ago, he'd be out on his ear for impertinence in a moment for leaving off the damn title.

"Pity," Lord Carrington says drily. "I should have liked to be the one to deflower you."

There's nothing he can say to that without his voice cracking, so he nods.

"I promise to be gentle, regardless — one hour. Recall what I said earlier about timeliness, if you will. My understanding is that a position such as yours can be… precarious."

No getting out of this one, then.

Thomas resists the urge to close his eyes and will himself away.

"Thank you, Thomas, you're dismissed."

Calm, collected, and composed, Thomas opens the door.

He walks down the corridor, then down the stairs; leaves the shirts and vests at the laundry; heads up to the attic and takes a bath.

The hour passes more quickly than he wants it to.

It turns out that Lord Carrington wasn't lying — he's gentle, all right. Too gentle, even.

Gentle like you'd be when you're plucking a tree's worth of wood splinters out of your hand.

"There's a good boy, Thomas, open up for me," and he has to suck on his own cheeks to keep from whining as he prods around inside him, finger crooked, because it's the oddest way anyone's ever done this and it's got him on edge, so, so, so on edge, even if being called _boy_ makes him seethe. 

He buries his face into the pillows, silk soft upon his cheeks, moans when Lord Carrington finds what he's apparently been looking for, in that step-by-step way of his.

Immediately, he removes his hand, and once more there's the sound of a stopper being removed from a bottle — then two fingers, coated in oil.

It's some sort of power play, he thinks, because no one's ever spent this much _time_ on him before, no one's ever crossed and scissored his fingers in him like this, held his hand around his prick such that he can't even get _hard,_ even though this is the most stirring thing he's had done to him in his whole bloody life and he feels like he could come from it alone.

But he wouldn't want to if he could, really, because then the actual buggering would be miserable if he couldn't get it up again.

Not that he normally has that problem, but it'd be just his luck if he did now.

"I so wish I could see your face, sweet boy – do you blush, for the want of me?"

And he tries to turn around again, he _does,_ he's not forgotten all that talk of disappointment and complaining to the Earl, but Lord Carrington's pumping his fingers in and out, now, torturously slow, and he takes the pillowcase between his teeth and whines, instead.

He can't control himself, either, and he grinds his hips up and down, craving.

"Aren't you an eager little thing!" 

Thomas wants to kill him, and at the same time he's mere seconds away from begging for his prick. But he needs to be good, needs to be servile and compliant, given what's at stake, so he bites his cheeks and turns up his head to look at him.

At least he's worth looking _at_ , even if he talks like someone out of a bodice ripper.

"You'd do all the work, I suppose, if I let you," says Lord Carrington.

And he pauses, fingers still inside of him, lets go of his cock only to pinch him again. He whines, undignified, then realises what was just said to him and tries to hold his own.

"And I daresay you'd enjoy it, too; boys like you do tend to," and he still isn't _moving_ , Thomas could _scream,_ because his cock is straining and he just wants more of his hand, but it would be degrading to _do the work,_ here, more than this already is, so he jams his heels into the mattress and stares at the canopy and tenses around his fingers.

Lord Carrington asks, "are you very greedy, Thomas?" in a tone like he expects a bloody answer.

And he doesn't know what the right one is.

He can hear himself breathing, panting like a fucking dog; it is taking actual effort not to start grinding on him, because he can't give him the satisfaction of it but he wants to very, very badly. Above him, Lord Carrington frowns.

"You must answer questions asked of you."

Fifty fifty chance he'll say the right thing if he says anything at all, at least, and those are the only odds he'll get, so —

"Yes? your Lordship?" he tries, tentative, which gets him laughed at.

Should he have said no? 

There's sweat on Lord Carrington's brow, at least, Thomas can see it, and he's been erect the whole time, too. He doesn't know why he finds that comforting.

_please start bloody moving again_

"Yes, what?"

" – my Lord?" because it's a normal title and it wasn't a problem, before, and why would it be _now_.

"Silly, silly – what are you, darling?"

He realises he's trembling.

"I – "

"Tell me," Lord Carrington purrs, and it takes everything he has not to swear at him.

"I – I'm greedy?" he manages, and this earns him a nod and nothing at all down below.

"Show me how much."

It's at this moment that Thomas decides he hates the Viscount of Carrington more than he's hated anyone else in his life.

"You've done so well thus far, Thomas, I hope you don't intend to be frigid. And certainly not now, after all I've deigned to give you, hm, darling?"

Right.

There are stakes here.

So he does. He starts slowly, because he's become terrified of doing the wrong thing — just tucking and untucking his hips, tensing and relaxing; but it's shooting himself in the damn foot, because starting slow means he has to speed up, and of course Lord Carrington has something to say about that —

"Don't try to fool me, dear boy, you want this more even than I do," and Thomas can't stop himself from whining breathily as he begins to move his fingers again.

He's wanting it more and more as this continues, and that should make him feel better, give him a sense of control back, but instead it just makes him feel dirty.

"I'm only giving you what you want," Lord Carrington adds, breathless, he knows exactly what to say to make him reel, and Thomas lets go and pulls himself down with his heels and twists his hips and grinds into his hand and bites his lip and shivers at the feeling, makes little embarrassing noises despite his best efforts, because maybe he bloody _is_ greedy, deep down, and if he's not that then he's just desperate. He wants to call it ambition, but there's no ambition, here, nothing to gain and everything to lose.

And he _likes_ it, God, he likes it, the last time he had anything remotely like this was back home, with —

"My darling boy," says Lord Carrington, and Thomas doesn't even realise he'd closed his eyes until he has to open them, "I've something far better than this – " he punctuates the word with a torturous twist of his fingers that makes his whole body flinch " – for you."

" _Please,_ " he says, an awful, choked sound, and then he's absolutely mortified, because he's flat on his back with his knees up fucking himself on the hand of a bloody viscount and begging for him, too, and Thomas doesn't beg, he doesn't grovel, that's not like him, but for some bloody reason he says it again, "please – "

"Oh, yes, Thomas, you _are_ greedy," Lord Carrington replies, smug. He pulls his fingers out, circling the rim of him on his way, exacting careful pressure. Thomas whines again, high-pitched. 

Lord Carrington laughs at him.

The more embarrassed he is, the more the Viscount seems to like it, and if this wasn't _genuinely humiliating_ he could take advantage of that, play the blushing damsel or whatever the hell it is he wants, but all he wants to do is come and then melt into the damn floor and never have to see this man again, and that's not going to be an option because he's here for another week and Thomas is going to have to wait on him for every little bloody thing in that time and he thinks he'll _die —_

It takes two hands for him to oil up his prick, and with the lack of pressure, Thomas is fully erect and aching within seconds.

"Will you take me well?"

Again, it's clearly not rhetorical.

"I wi… I will, si - my Lo - I will, I... " Because the second the first sound was out of his mouth he'd pushed aside his legs and now he's slowly, slowly entering him, and it's sore and it's pressure and it's exquisite and it's not nearly enough, not anywhere close, after all that with just his bloody _fingers,_ and Lord Carrington's nothing to write home about, either, not especially large or long or whatever else it is that matters, but —

Oh, God, is he _persistent._

Thomas draws his knees up to his chest and tries not to squirm once he bottoms out, tries not to give in all the way to sensation, because he's lost control of himself already and he needs to keep what shreds are left of his dignity intact… 

Lord Carrington stills and says, breathy, "you must be quiet, or the whole house will know of your foibles."

...but he feels stretched and full and he's so fucking hard, and there's nothing he can _do_ about any of it.

Thomas whines, a reedy sound from the back of his throat.

It is decidedly not quiet.

"What would," starts Lord Carrington, but then he moans, too, as he starts to thrust – "what would they say of their sweet little footman, if they caught you begging for me?"

As if anyone thinks of him as their _sweet little footman,_ he's made damn sure of that, but then he goes on, sneering, even as his voice wavers, "beautiful boy, you'd appall the household, wouldn't you, and then where might you be, hm?"

The suggestion rattles him, makes him aware again of what the hell he's gotten himself into and how dangerous it is, which is apparently what was wanted, because Lord Carrington gives him a sharp grin, one with teeth.

"Out on the street?"

Because it's not enough for him just to have a title and a functioning cock, he has to lord it over him this way, too, keep him damn well aware of his place —

This time he thrusts at a different angle, just the bloody right angle, and Thomas moans involuntarily and rolls his hips.

"You'd never find work in a great house again," coos Lord Carrington, and then he's sliding his hands upon Thomas's torso and fucking into him with more vigor, and he's so hard and he's in the right spot and it's exactly how he likes it, he's coming more undone with every thrust, but it doesn't feel _good._ "But I daresay you could find it elsewhere, couldn't you, _many_ men would pay for this — "

 _But you won't,_ and it's not like he wants him to, he's not a whore and he never will be, but just the fact that Lord Carrington's acting like he's getting something for free that he wouldn't've otherwise is infuriating —

" — oh," says Thomas, unthinking, and he forgets that he's livid, because _his Lordship_ is now putting more of his weight on his chest, pinning him in place as he increases speed, and it _is_ good now, in his body if not quite in his head; this time, when he rocks back and forth against him, it's out of a sense of dire need. "Oh, G – "

"Like the thought of that, dear thing, do you? Someone might even like to keep you for a pet – "

He bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from wailing.

"What did I tell you about questions, Thomas?"

There is no good fucking reason a man should be this composed while bollocks deep in a servant who's meeting his every _whim._

But at least he knows what's expected of him by now.

"I, I do, your Lordsh – _bloody hell."_

He rolls his hips down on Lord Carrington's prick and tries to press upward at the same time, because he just gave him a swipe of his hand and he's _burning._

"Such an awful mouth on such a handsome boy," says Lord Carrington, and then, _finally, fucking finally,_ he loses himself and shuts up, and because all of that about never finding work again is probably _true_ Thomas finds it in himself to clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut and keep the noise to a minimum.

He comes the moment Lord Carrington wraps his hand all the way around his cock, before he's even started stroking.

And then he takes him as best he can, breathing heavily while he waits for him to finish, and if he'd thought getting fingered was torture this is _actual torture_ in comparison; he feels like his prick is on fire.

Thomas tenses around him and tries to buck his hips some more just to get him off and get him _off,_ but the sensation of that is more than he can bear, so he stops moving, forces himself to breathe more evenly, and then lies back limp and exhausted.

He starts counting down from one hundred.

It's not until seventy three that Lord Carrington comes.

At sixty one, Thomas realises that he's crying.

At forty seven, the man finally pulls himself away, and he stops counting.

"Oh, dear Thomas," Lord Carrington says at some point, and he puts his palm to his cheek — the very same that touched him; he doesn't know what he feels about that — and brushes his tears away. "How lovely you look."

That's doubtful, given he's soaked in sweat and dripping with ejaculate and bloody crying.

"Your lordship," he says quietly, in case he's expected to respond.

Against his wishes, Thomas finds himself relaxing into the bed — by far the nicest one he's ever been in.

He imagines what it would have been like if the Viscount saw him as a person and not some sort of doll. Better, probably.

It… would have been amazing, actually.

He'd have wanted this if he'd been asked for it, rather than roped in with threats to his livelihood. He would have said yes and done everything desired of him, played the boy virgin and everything, because Lord Carrington's beautiful and his voice is pleasant and he knows his way around sweet nothings and taking a man apart, and it would have been incredible if he'd felt like he had any say in it. If he meant what he said. If he wasn't nothing at the start and a means in the middle and nothing again at the end.

"I wish I could keep you with me all night," murmurs Lord Carrington, and Thomas starts to seethe and then _his hand is on his prick again –_

He gasps, because it's too much, it hasn't been long enough and it stings like hell, even if he's stirring again.

Thomas shakes his head.

"Oh, you can go again, surely, you _are_ such a young thing."

But what's in it for _him,_ if he can't, himself, other than making Thomas delirious?

Maybe that's reason enough.

When he finally manages to answer, his voice is hoarse.

"I'll… be needed in the servants' hall, my Lord."

He finished his duties before coming back up, because he's not stupid, but Lord Carrington doesn't know that. Nobles tend to think servants spend every hour of every day working, anyhow, so it's something of a good excuse.

"At this hour?"

Or not.

And a look at the clock tells him it's after three in the morning, so he's just not going to sleep at all tonight, apparently.

"Perhaps not, your Lordship," he says.

"I don't care for lies nor liars, Thomas, do remember that."

"I will, your Lordship."

It's like someone else is speaking out of his body.

"I suppose I'll let you go, now," Lord Carrington purrs. "But I hope you'll return each night."

What he's actually saying is, _return every night or I'll ruin your life for the fun of it._

"I won't disappoint you, my Lord."

But he really bloody wishes he could.


	2. 1915

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional content warnings/notes for this chapter include:** war; smoking; implied/referenced death, violence and injury; criminal justice as applied to homosexuality; emotional manipulation; dissociation.

**CHRISTMAS EVE, WESTERN FRONT, 1915**

* * *

"Not even letting 'em have a truce this year — it's rubbish, I tell you, rubbish."

"Them? It's us, innit?"

"Don't see me carrying a rifle, do you," interrupts Thomas. "Vance, Jackson."

He hands the latter a cigarette and his lighter, then takes the lighter back and does his own. 

"Merry Christmas to me," Jackson says, and Thomas shakes his head.

He is doing an awful job of controlling himself and can't really afford to give them away, but he can't let a debt hang over his head, either.

Less reason anyone has to keep an eye on him, the better.

"Got tired of owing you one."

Vance watches all this with a furrowed brow. "But we's in the army?"

He's a real pedant, for a farmer's son.

"In name only," says Jackson, sounding only half as irritated as Thomas feels. "Germans aren't meant to shoot at us at all, is the thing." He taps his armband. "Makes no difference if there's a ceasefire."

"Except a truce is the only time you'll ever see anyone abide by that rule," mutters Thomas.

Spent last year retrieving bodies while the rest of them sang carols and smoked cigars.

"Now, now, Private Barrow, who needs a truce? The war'll be over any day now," replies Jackson, sing-song, and Thomas wants to strangle him.

He takes another drag of his cigarette instead.

"Saying that last Christmas, weren't they," says Vance.

"And where were you last Christmas, Private?" Thomas says, sneering as best as he can, and Vance shrinks.

"Warm in his bed, waiting for Father Christmas."

If Jackson's good for anything, it's riposte, at least — so long as it's not at him Thomas doesn't mind it. Besides, they've been in the trenches together since last November, which he can't say for anyone else around at the moment.

Or at all, really. The company's been shifted around some since he got here, both because of orders from above and the endless casualties. 

" — good evening, Privates."

They all stand to attention, but Thomas almost slacks again when he sees who it is.

Beside him, Jackson is smirking.

"Major Franklin requests your presence, Private Barrow," says Colton. He's nervous, like a mouse surrounded by traps, and a few weeks ago he absolutely would have been… but loathe as Thomas is to admit it, they're not on the same level anymore, the four of them.

They _should_ be, though, they're four in a team of five now and the other's a Lieutenant, so he doesn't count. Colton only got acting corporal because he just so happened to be in the right place at the right time when they hauled out his predecessor. _Vance_ would have been a better choice, and he just finished training in bloody October.

"Can't wait, can it?"

"Don't question orders," he snaps. 

Thomas looks him up and down, takes a drag from his cigarette, and taps the ash off like he hasn't a care in the world. 

He raises his eyebrows.

It wasn't phrased like an order, after all.

"The, er, the Major, he… he s - says it's urgent," stammers Colton.

That's more like him.

Because he can't resist, Thomas blows smoke in his face.

"Golly, Colton, suppose that means I ought to be right over."

Colton turns up his chin at him, narrows his eyes, but when he next speaks, his voice is still wavering, like he's a schoolboy giving his first recitation.

"C - Corporal Colton to - to _you_ , Barrow, I'll thank you – " And then he's sauntering off. They all slouch as soon as his back is turned.

Jackson whistles after him.

"Lance corporal," says Thomas under his breath, but he straightens.

"Got a lot to prove, that one," says Jackson to Vance.

"Who do you mean?" says Vance. 

_Colton, if he knows what's good for him,_ but Jackson doesn't even dignify the question with a response.

No tactic really works to shut him up, though, at least when they're not dodging bullets — "you're not really going to keep him waiting, are you, Private Barrow?" 

Fucking dolt.

Jackson whacks him upside the head and tells him as such, catches Thomas's gaze and rolls his eyes.

"Save a sandbag for me," Thomas says to him, and he leaves without further ado.

Whatever this is about, it had better be worth his while, he thinks, and he walks with purpose — or as much purpose as anyone can when the ground is soggy and his fingers are frozen.

A few yards before the officer's dugout is a man evidently trying and failing to sleep.

When Thomas passes, he can feel him staring at his cigarette, so he takes one last drag and then stomps it out right in front of him.

As soon as he's inside, the slapdash door shut behind him, he stands at attention and says, "Private Barrow, sir. Corporal Colton said you requested my presence."

Used those exact words, too.

"Boy did as I asked, then."

Thomas only nods, keeps his eyes fixed on the wall just beside Major Franklin's right ear — not much to look at, just makeshift shelves holding tins of cut coffee, bent up nails acting as coat hooks, the like, but it's better than looking _at_ him. That always gets awkward fast.

Franklin says nothing, which is just dandy, for someone who apparently had an urgent need to speak to him — in Thomas's estimation, he's not all right in the head, but then, most of them aren't, these days.

He can feel his eyes on him, though.

"Sir," he says, when he's been standing stock-still with his arms glued to his sides long enough that he's realised the _at ease_ he's waiting for isn't about to come any time soon.

"Yes, Private?"

Immediately, he regrets speaking. He can't very well question his motives, now, can he, but he's also not about to stand here doing nothing when he could be taking respite.

Or at least, not about to stand here looking happy about it, because that's about the only thing he actually has control over.

He'd had to stub out a cigarette for this, after all.

He settles on saying, "what can I do for you, sir."

"Thought you might like to know about the verdict on Corporal Quincy."

Thomas grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Well? Would you?"

"Can't say I especially would or wouldn't, sir."

Franklin raises his eyebrows. "Not a very compassionate fellow, are you, Barrow?"

Never has been; isn't about to start now. Compassion doesn't get a man very far in life, for one thing, and it's always been his intention to go far. 

For another — and he's damn well learned his lesson in this over the years — sex doesn't exactly constitute a relationship. They may have gotten each other off on occasion, he and Quincy, they may have kept each other warm when they had the space and time for it, but the bastard got caught with some infantryman, not Thomas. They weren't in love. He didn't love him.

So there's no point in caring. He might check out tomorrow, after all, get hit with some stray shrapnel while hoisting a man onto a stretcher just so he can die a few feet away from where he'd have done otherwise. Merry Christmas; your gift is a railway ticket straight to hell — if nothing else, Thomas has no illusions, because it would be. One hell right along to another. 

Sympathy's not about to prevent that, now, is it.

Quincy shouldn't've gotten caught in the first place.

"I'll hear what you see fit to tell me, sir."

Franklin knows everything; of that, Thomas is certain. They don't see one another all that much, him being an actual commanding officer and all, but whenever he's around he's always got his eyes on him — him and Quincy, when they were on duty together, but now just whatever rookie he's been paired up with. Add to that the snide remarks about how he spent his leave, and there's no doubt the Major's wise on him.

Only question is how much _everything_ actually is, but for some reason Thomas can't bring himself to care about that, either. 

Hard to give a damn about anything when you're calf deep in muck and freezing to death in the middle of nowhere in bloody Wipers.

"Discharged, eighteen months' labour. Be more if he hadn't been in a civvie court."

Shouldn't feel like a punch to the gut, seeing as he didn't love him, but it is. 

And maybe he ought to be more careful, himself, but he's not _afraid_ or anything — he's not like the two of them; he's not careless. He won't get caught in the act. He won't get caught at all.

Because he can't.

He _can't._

"At ease, Private."

Thomas takes a breath and lets himself fidget for half a moment before settling.

"Sorry to hear it?"

Why there needs to be a whole bloody interrogation over this he'll never know.

"He's… facing consequences for his actions, sir."

"God's sake, Barrow, I'm not about to send you to the fucking tribunal for being lovesick."

Well. 

That's his suspicions confirmed.

 _I'm not lovesick,_ he wants to say. 

"Of course you're not, sir."

"Come sit."

"Yes, sir."

And he does, on an actual honest-to-goodness bloody chair.

Live in luxury, these officers do.

"I was, myself," says Franklin, after a moment. He's got his hands clasped in his lap and is staring at Thomas with an expression he doesn't know what to make of on his face. "I was very sorry to hear it. He would've made a damn good Sergeant."

Thomas thinks very, very carefully about his next words.

"He did good work, sir."

He did, too, and he was good at giving orders. He kept them all in line easy and had a sharp eye for detail — in fact, he'd come out of service, himself, an actual valet to some other Earl, and that was a major asset so far as his section duties were concerned. 

But he was also good on the field, had steady hands and never let anything get to him. The rest of their lot called him heartless, but it wasn't that — he did have a heart. He wept as much as any of them, had bouts of nerves and went into fits, he just never showed it out in No Man's Land, where it mattered. Never to a wounded man, or to their section or anyone else, except maybe to Thomas. And maybe to that other Private, in the infantry, whose face he's seen but whose name he's never bothered to learn.

Quincy had the stolid, steely disposition he'd always tried to emulate but could never quite master, whereas just yesterday Thomas had broken down after tying up a tourniquet on the sniped soldier of the hour. (At least it _was_ after, he can always take pride in that — if nothing else, he's good at getting a job done well, always has been.)

That disposition helped him save tens and tens of lives, in the last year.

And now his own had been ruined over a fucking blow.

"As do you, Barrow."

It's not what he'd expected him to say, and he starts. But there's nothing suspect in Major Franklin's face.

"Do good work and you're respected, and I can't say the same for our acting Corporal Colton on the latter, so you'll take over for Quincy."

What.

"Sir."

"You're being promoted, Barrow. He's not coming back; we need a man in his boots."

"To… lance corporal, sir?"

"To corporal." 

There's an unspoken _you fucking idiot,_ there, and Thomas swallows.

He can't ruin this.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Field promotion. Need to get your papers in order to get it through, but there won't be a problem, there, unless you've got some black marks I don't know about?"

"No, sir."

His record is exemplary, and he's been building on it since before anyone could say Kitchener.

Franklin almost smiles.

"Take over the duties starting tomorrow. I doubt you'll find it to be much more work, given what extra you've been shafted with in all this."

"Yes, sir."

"Not going to move much else around – if Private Colton gives you any trouble, you outrank him, so do whatever the hell you like. Lieutenant Marcus hates him, anyway, and besides him none of you lot's officers. We're not the bloody cavalry."

 _Private Colton._ Oh, this is almost too good to be true — must've been demoted right before he was sent for him.

"Yes, sir."

"We'll get your crew back up to six; got a Private coming in to join us at rest camp."

That's a relief if there ever was one.

"Don't know when we'll manage to get you that extra chevron."

"I understand, sir."

And then nothing.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say the Major looked exhausted, just for a second, like all the weary showed up on his face at once, but then it's gone.

"Tell you what," says Franklin, more stern, "I waited too long to get the section in order. Got optimistic. You misbehave, I won't make the same mistake twice, mark my words."

"I'll… "

Thomas drums his fingers on his thigh, then realises he's doing it and digs them into his trousers, instead.

"I'll behave, sir," he says eventually, voice small, and he wants to kick himself for it, but Franklin smiles at him.

Almost like he's a human being and not a cog in a machine he'll never see the outside of.

"No place for optimism in a war."

"No, sir."

"You do good work, Barrow," he repeats.

Thomas looks away, and he wills himself to get his nerve back, to buck up a bit, because he's just been promoted and it's Christmas Eve and he's going to lie low from now on and no one's going to have a chance to send him to court over anything, ever, especially not on a charge for indecency, and he's going to spare a thought for Quincy tonight, now he's taking over his position and not nearly so rueful as he ought to be about it, and, and, and…

And then he's not going to think about him again. Ever, if he can help it.

No place for sentiment in a war, either.

"Thank you, sir."

No reply. When Thomas turns back — got to be respectful, got to be submissive, and in that regard domestic service was more than enough preparation for the army — 

Their eyes meet.

And then Major Franklin lays his hand on his knee.

He smiles, again, somehow more sinister and more gentle at once, maybe because it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

And now Thomas wants to choke, because of fucking course he can't get anything on bloody merit, can he, can't just be sharp and determined and capable and putting up with far more than he ever imagined he'd have to in his worst fucking nightmares and earn something on his own, get recognition for something that ought to matter, there has to be _this involved._

But there's that saying, isn't there. _If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is._

Always is, in his experience.

Always.

Why did he ever expect otherwise?

Still silent, Major Franklin begins to rub his thumb in circles upon his thigh, and he feels frozen, but he's been here before. He's a veteran, one could say.

And so he repeats his words from earlier, voice low and sultry, like men like it to be, like he's a bloody footman at Downton Abbey and some Lord isn't satisfied with his Lady and if he says no he'll lose everything and he'd be lying if he hadn't thought about having it anyway but it never turns out as good as he imagines or hopes it'll be and he doesn't always want it all that much but it's not like he can afford to get thrown out with no reference —

He purrs, "what can I do for you, sir?"

He hadn't realised how close they were seated until just now.

Franklin brings his palm up further on his leg, right up to his hip, and then he leans in and murmurs, "what did you do for Quincy?"

Thomas can play this game.

"Oh, a good deal, sir." Which is a lie; they kept it to frot and handjobs. But he's done a good deal elsewhere.

Not like the Major will ever find out the truth, because odds are neither of them are ever going to see former Corporal Jacob Quincy again.

_Keep it together._

"And how did he like it?"

"You said it yourself, Major." There's a nip at his earlobe, and he shivers. "I do good work."

"But not good enough to keep him coming back to you, eh."

It's a slap in the face.

Thomas starts to clench his hands into fists, but he forces himself to breathe, because the second he fucks this up he's sure Franklin will shout bloody murder and the whole damn company will come bursting in, and then next thing he knows he'll be on trial for attempting to defile a senior officer.

"You'll have to be the judge of that, sir."

Major Franklin hums.

This must be how he knows — he would never have thought Jacob the type to go after officers, he was almost _wholesome,_ but Thomas supposes it makes sense, really. 

But at the same time, it can't be right. He'd have been told about it, he'd have known while it was going on, because they were close, and they shared those things, and even fucking O'Brien would have told him if she'd hopped in the sack with some Peer. Thomas had always told her when he did, often enough, and they weren't even shagging, the two of them.

The mere thought of that almost makes him feel more sick than the actual situation he's in.

Funny thing is, the notion that he might've been going behind his back with a goddamn _Major_ lessens the sting of it all. He wasn't as perfect as he looked, in that case, so this just means that Thomas is taking on his duties in more ways than one.

"If I may be so bold, sir," breathes Thomas, and he takes Major Franklin's hand and urges it more to the inside of his thigh, because that's bold, too, "I think you'll find I don't pale in comparison."

Encouraged, Franklin juts his palm between Thomas's legs, and he inhales sharply.

"To Quincy, you mean."

_Who bloody else._

And he just leaves his hand there, too, right at the fly of his trousers but absolutely motionless.

It's getting to him, he has to admit.

"Oh, he's not like you, Barrow, he'd never have let me take him, even if I'd asked."

…but he hadn't.

Which means…

"Knew you would, though; you're the sort that does."

 _The sort that does._

What kind of bloody impression could he possibly have given off, soaked in someone else's blood or coated in sludge? 

"And I've given you some damn good reasons to satisfy me tonight, haven't I, Private."

With a bit of emphasis on that last word, there.

So here's his choice: keep this up, let him have at it, wake up in the morning a Corporal; or back out now, end up in disgrace, and be the one digging the trenches come the new year.

He's already _made_ it, the decision there's clear, but he didn't think Major Franklin would actually rub it in — didn't think a lot of things of Major Franklin, actually, but he really should have, because now he's realising he doesn't actually know what he's up against.

"You have, sir."

Another press of his hand down against his cock, and Thomas flinches, because _this is getting to him._

Then Franklin's standing and taking off his kit, and he feels frozen, like even if it was boiling outside he'd be unable to move because the inside of him's all ice.

"Wall all right?" like he has any say in the matter, himself, and Thomas says, "yes, sir."

"Undress, then, Barrow."

"Yes, sir."

So he stands.

He doesn't look at him, just faces the narrow bit of the bunker wall without all the shelving and begins to shuck off his tunic. It takes longer than it should; he can't keep his hands steady. And it's _not_ boiling outside, certainly isn't in here, either, even sheltered from the crisp night air and with something near to an actual floor under his feet.

If this were something he'd started, if he'd seduced him — and it's not like the thought hadn't ever crossed his mind, some of those glances were more wanting than knowing, and while Major Franklin may not be something off of a chocolate box he's hardly bad looking — he wouldn't be nervous. He'd be the one in power, and this would be on his own terms, and he'd feel attractive and in control, but now he doesn't feel either of those things.

He feels like he was in the right place at the right time.

As he's undoing his braces, heart pounding, Franklin rifles through a set and takes out a jar of vaseline.

They're in the damn Medical Corps, there's no shortage of that around, but he gets the impression he's about to feel like there is.

"Done this before?"

"Which part, sir?"

"Don't give me cheek, Private. Paperwork's not finished just yet."

He was trying to _flirt,_ because he doesn't actually know what was meant by the question.

"Yes, sir." Thomas squeezes his eyes shut for an instant, and then opens them when the vision in his head is of a guest room at Downton Abbey. "You'll see I'm up to the task, sir."

"Which task, Barrow?"

Fuck did he walk right into that one.

"All of them, I should hope, sir."

If nothing else, his timing is exceptional, because he finally gets his fly undone and is able to drop his trousers and sling his vest off.

He doesn't realise the Major is right behind him until he reaches around to fondle him, now that they're both bare skinned.

Thomas braces his forearm up on the paneling in front of him and gasps, because it's too much, when he hasn't been touched or touched himself since weeks ago, back before they woke up in the middle of the night to shouting and rushed to find not spies or an ambush but — 

"Bet you're plenty experienced, eh?" 

He keeps his weight centered on his heels and forces himself to breathe, because the _reason_ he hasn't touched himself is because it makes him sick to his bloody stomach, like he could get hauled out just for thinking about a man while he does it.

"Very, sir."

"If you were something more than a Private I'd wager you fucked your way up."

Because that's what he's doing here.

Fucking his way up.

Major Franklin teases at his cock and bollocks until he's hard, or at least more noticeably on his way to it, and though it's hardly gentle he spares a moment of thanks that he's at least bothered to get him in the mood. 

On the other hand, he's now unstable, got the pins and needles feeling in his legs, off his guard; there's heat in his groin and it's all he can do not to thrust into his hand, suddenly wanting more than he thought he would.

Because the want's in his body, but not his brain.

"Must be why the officers are so keen on you," adds Major Franklin. Thomas is no stranger to the noises coming from behind him, and he braces himself further, tries to relax down below and makes sure he's not going to lock his knees and faint. "Asked around in the infantry all about the stretcher bearers, and Private Barrow came up a few times – you've got some of 'em wrapped around your finger."

They like him because he follows orders and keeps up on his presentation and makes a good companion and does what's asked of him before the words are all the way out of their mouths, not because he does bloody favours.

"Helps with morale, I'd say, having someone around when they aren't on leave."

Hard or not, he feels like he's going to be sick.

"We do have excellent esprit de corps, sir," Thomas manages to say, because even if it's an outright lie, morale's in the figurative trenches just as they're in the literal ones, he's not about to admit to shagging his seniors when he hasn't been.

Other than this one.

Still, it's a line he can draw, so someone give him a bloody pencil.

Unceremonious, Major Franklin grabs him by the hip with one hand and his shoulder with the other, and Thomas is glad he had the foresight to get into the position he's in because nothing's been done to him yet and he's still so nervous he thinks he could faint.

This is something he thought he'd gotten away from when he left service, and that was ignorant, given all he'd heard about the army even then, but he'd had rose-coloured glasses on where sex in the military was concerned. He'd had rose-coloured glasses on where everything in the military was concerned, full stop. 

And on leave, though who knows when he'll get that again soon, assuming he stays in France, he's got options, so long as he keeps away from his own people, options where he could have the power if he wanted it, but he hasn't actually taken advantage of any of them. He hadn't needed to, last time, and next time he won't be able to stomach it.

He could never look in the goddamn mirror again if he went through with something like that, because he knows what it feels like to be used, and bitter as he is about it, as much as he sometimes wants to take it out on someone else, there are lines he can't ever and won't ever cross.

Nonetheless, he's made it more than a year on the Front without a man making him feel that way, and he'd thought that meant it wouldn't happen, like he'd gotten out of it. In hell he may be, but that particular kind of torture's not on the menu.

War is prix-fixe, turns out.

Major Franklin doesn't waste time with too much foreplay — he's gotten used to that, over the years, hasn't had a lover since 19-bloody-11 and no one really fucking bothers when all they want is something tight to stick their cock in — but he does at least get him ready with one vaseline-coated finger.

It's been long enough that the act makes him suck in a breath through his teeth and buckle at the knees.

"You're not a girl, Barrow, stop acting like one."

It's the carelessness of it that gets him, neither gentle nor rough, the way he draws his finger in and out and stretches him open not with girth but insistent, pressing circles, the feeling of his knuckles near to being inside him when he prods deeper but not quite.

There's a swipe up against his prostate out of bloody nowhere, and he gasps, a whimper coming up from his throat — when he clenches around him, because he and his subconscious want more of anything remotely resembling pleasure when he knows what's about to come next, he gets but another second before Major Franklin takes his hand away entirely.

His prick is throbbing, and he can feel sweat on the back of his neck even though he's freezing.

He hopes that the Major is young enough and deprived enough that this won't last long, and then he can find somewhere to hide out and get himself off in peace, think about things that aren't facing a court and getting sentenced to who knows what for who knows how long, because anything would be better than this — 

There isn't a hand on his shoulder, now, and he does what he knows and breathes in so that he can exhale when… 

" _Fuck,_ " Thomas chokes out, eyes squeezed shut, and he presses his forehead into the crook of his elbow and keeps his hips tilted up as he enters him. No matter how fucking slow and steady this is going, no matter how slick he is, he is _not ready for this,_ not stretched enough or warm enough, and it bloody hurts.

"Tight like a girl, though," grunts Major Franklin, and Thomas grits his teeth before realising that isn't going to cut it and biting into the fabric of his shirt. 

When he's all the way in, he pauses.

It's so goddamn much, the feeling of him just stopping there, hips near flush to his backside and bollocks-deep and not _moving,_ and Thomas doesn't know if it'd feel better or worse if he was. Depends on the man; he doesn't know this one well enough yet and hopes to the God he doesn't believe in that he won't have anything else to go on after this.

He's not quite feeling anything other than pain yet.

"This isn't meant to be torture, Barrow, go ahead and fucking touch yourself," and somehow, despite how that would probably make this better, doing it because he was told to doesn't quite suit him.

And he can't resist stabbing back, even if it could have consequences, because he's full and he's in pain and he has no clue when this is going to be over and that's how he deals with things, is sharp remarks — 

"Is that an order, sir?"

"No," he replies, "but you'll damn regret it if you don't take it as one, Private," and hell if that isn't the truth, so he doesn't wait to be told twice before taking himself in hand.

 _You can get through this; you've had worse,_ he tells himself, and the familiarity of his own touch calms him down, eases the hurt. He knows how he likes it, and holds himself firm, pushes the heel of his hand down into the base of his prick in the way he's done for years, clenches his other hand into a fist.

"Oh, God," he whimpers.

Major Franklin says, "close your eyes and think of Quincy," then starts to thrust.

This is going to run him roughshod, so he _does,_ he thinks about how he'd looked when they were in that hostel room on their first leave in Paris and had had proper, private baths for the first time in so many weeks, his dark brown hair wet around his face and his skin dripping and the smile at his lips, the light in his striking green eyes, the curve of his collarbones and the hair on his chest and the tone of his arms, and Thomas had held his hand to his cheek and kissed him and felt _wanted,_ and hopeful, entertained for an hour the fantasy that the war would end soon and they could stick around in France (he bloody hates France) and have something without living out on a limb, have something without the threat of consequences, have something for themselves and only themselves and no one else, no Earls to valet and no dining tables to wait at, live their own lives away from it all — 

It doesn't make it hurt any less, thinking about that, and so he keeps himself upright and responsive and puts the pain out of his mind and draws his hand up and down along the shaft of his prick, slow enough that he can keep himself aroused until the man behind him's finished. _Please be over soon,_ he thinks, _please._

When Major Franklin speaks again, it's in a low, breathy voice; the words are in rhythm with his thrusts, and Thomas is finally starting to hate it less: "you make a habit of lying to senior officers, Barrow?"

"W - what?"

But he doesn't go on after that, just presses his fingertips into Thomas's hips with enough force that he might have bloody bruises and starts moving with more vigor, and — thank the God there isn't — finally gets at an angle that _does_ anything for him. His whole body shudders, he feels like he might just crumple, and so he gives up on postponing it and starts moving his hand up and down, whimpering. (He's always been fucking _noisy_ , and it's always the worst at times like these when the stakes are high and he has everything to lose.)

"'At's it, Barrow, don't fight it."

Thomas bites his sleeve again and stops thinking about any of it. It's just a body, going through this, just a body and not his, he can feel it, but it's not _him._

He doesn't even realise it when Major Franklin comes; he's so far gone, lost in that mixed sensation of pain and arousal that he'll probably feel sick over later but isn't yet.

He comes himself when the man pulls out and keeps his cheeks parted, presses a thumb right around the opening, and then he's not there anymore.

Sore, he's already bloody _sore,_ God — he drops his dirty hand to his side and leans into the wall, takes heaving breaths.

A damp rag lands on his shoulder after _not-long-enough,_ and he turns around to stare dumbly at the Major once it does.

"Get cleaned up and dress yourself."

"Yes, sir."

He can't make the words more than a whisper, but he's quick about it despite the daze he's in.

"Asked you a question a bit ago," says Major Franklin casually, after Thomas has got his braces fastened.

He wants nothing more than to lie down, and somewhere flat, at that, like a real fucking bed. Somewhere he can sleep peacefully and forget what he just let happen to him.

"I don't remember, sir," he says, truthfully.

"How often, Barrow, do you lie to your officers?"

…this is a trick question. "Er, never."

Mostly because he's never close enough to anyone besides Lieutenant Marcus and Major Franklin, and this is the first time they've spoken enough he'd even have the chance.

"Really?"

Though he did say that thing about them all having good morale.

"Yes, sir."

Major Franklin's already fully dressed, but Thomas is struggling to get his tunic back on. 

There's a sick smile on his face.

"Funny you should say that," he says. "Because I know for a fact I'm the only one you've let fuck you."

He heads to the bunker door, and Thomas stares — panicked, he manages to finish dressing _just_ before he opens it, then darts over before he can be told to get out.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas, Corporal Barrow."


End file.
